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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26401693">Deductive Reasoning (Has Its Flaws)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fearful_little_thing/pseuds/Fearful_little_thing'>Fearful_little_thing</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Sick Heart [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Teen Wolf (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Background Derek/Peter, Everyone thinks Jackson already knew, Gen, Good Alpha Peter Hale, Jackson finds out about werewolves, Jackson grows as a person, Jackson is oblivious to any character growth he undergoes, Lack of Self-Reflection, POV Jackson Whittemore, POV Outsider, Pack Dynamics</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 11:08:59</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>14,827</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26401693</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fearful_little_thing/pseuds/Fearful_little_thing</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Jackson thinks he knows why Scott McCall is suddenly Mr Athletic and he's going to prove it. He's not intimidated by McCall's sudden prowess, not when he knows exactly where it's coming from. It's obvious. And while Coach may be looking the other way, Jackson sure isn't going to. He's going to get some proof, and then McCall's perfect little world is going to come crashing down.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Sick Heart [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1615369</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>33</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. It Doesn't Quite Add Up (But When Has That Ever Stopped Anyone)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Set in the same universe as "Sick Heart" and "Unwell". While you can read this story on its own a lot of the background context will be lost and parts may not make perfect sense otherwise.</p>
<p>Because this is primarily Jackson's POV it will not always present a flattering (or entirely accurate) picture of of other characters.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There was something extremely suspicious about McCall’s sudden athletic prowess. Nobody else seemed to notice, or maybe they just didn’t care when the end result was that BHHS’s lacrosse team gained another star player. Someone to help carry the team to actual victory instead of very close defeat. Nobody seemed to care that winning wasn’t supposed to be <em>easy</em>, that you were supposed to <em>earn</em> your way to the top. Coach thought it was fantastic that McCall changed overnight from asthmatic disaster to professional-grade player.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Jackson thought it was drugs.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It had to be.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>There was absolutely no way that someone like McCall would change that much literally overnight. Maybe he had the foundation already in him, when he wasn’t wheezing or distracted he’d been a sort of decent if erratic player. You could have a good grasp of the fundamentals without being a star player. Point was, one day McCall had been a scrawny, wheezy mess and the next he was suddenly packed with muscle, twice as focused and four times as fast as he had been before.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>What the hell else was it going to be except drugs?</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Plus there was the way that McCall’s <em>only</em> friend had been acting extra weird. The locker room incident, weird whispered conversations that sounded almost like fights. The way they seemed to be at odds half the time now when they used to be like two weirdo peas in a loser pod.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Jackson would have assumed that it was all because Stilinski kept trying to talk McCall out of taking whatever it was he was taking, being the son of the sheriff and all, if it weren’t for the extra-weird fact that <em>he</em> seemed to be the one who was getting it for him. Because Jackson was about ninety percent sure that he’d figured out who McCall’s dealer was, and that ten percent of uncertainty was because the one time he’d seen McCall interact with the guy it was to tell him to fuck off and stay out of his life.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Stilinski, on the other hand, he had actually seen getting into the guy’s car. He’d overheard Stilinski arguing with him on the phone once, telling him to ‘just bring it here’ and ‘I’ll have it for you later’, which naturally wasn’t suspicious sounding at all.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>So Jackson had watched some more, and observed some more, until he finally couldn’t take it anymore and tailed Stilinski’s obnoxious blue jeep to try and find out what in the hell was actually going on. (To figure out whether it was worth it to involve Stilinski’s cop father or if he’d need more proof than ‘I saw your son talking to a really suspicious looking guy and I think he’s giving his best friend performance enhancing drugs’.)</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Which is when he actually saw the guy properly and knew for certain that, yeah, Stilinski and McCall were into some shady shit. Stilinski more so than McCall, despite not being the one actually taking the drugs.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He lived in the industrial part of town, in a building that – according to his dad’s friend – had recently been purchased outright with cash. He drove a flashy black sports car, dressed in black jeans and leather jackets, and didn’t seem to have any form of employment that would explain the expensive car or the cash purchase of an entire building. There also seemed to be at least one other stupidly expensive car parked at the property at all times, indicating that whoever this guy was he had a lot of cash to throw around.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Nobody in Beacon Hills who didn’t live in Jackson’s neighbourhood had that much cash to throw around.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Nobody who was doing anything legal.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He tried confronting McCall about it. Badly, he will admit, because by that point Jackson was really starting to get pissed off about how all of his <em>actual effort</em> was being shown up by some idiot pumping shit into his body. He outright asked what it was McCall was taking. And McCall, being the shit that he was, denied everything.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Which is what led to this.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>This idiotic thing that he was doing that he <em>already knew</em> was a mistake even as he was doing it.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Jackson had parked his car a little ways down the street – he’s not entirely sure why, since this area is all but abandoned – and walked up to the building where McCall’s dealer lived. He’d thought there would be a buzzer or something, a lock to keep people out, a camera, <em>some</em> kind of security to keep people out. There wasn’t.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He’d wandered through the ground floor, most of it a huge open space that obviously used to belong to some kind of factory, then found his way upstairs. Most of the doorways were empty, the rooms bare. Until he got to a large metal door with rollers instead of hinges. That door was shut.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Jackson hesitated a moment, building up his nerve, then he raised a fist and knocked on the door. Three times, confidently, like he had every right to be there.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Shit, what was he even doing here? He was going to get himself beat up or murdered and his parents would finally figure out they’d made a mistake by adopting him.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Thoughts of angry drug dealers and pissed off parents swirled in his head as he heard footsteps from the other side of the door.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>A moment later the door slid open to reveal the dark-haired drug dealer, wearing dark jeans, a wife beater that showed off impressively muscled arms, and a not-insubstantial amount of stubble on a surprisingly youthful face.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Hi,” Jackson said with casual confidence, looking the guy in the face and not trying to get a peek at his apartment, “I’m a friend of Stilinski’s.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>One of the guy’s thick black eyebrows raised slightly. “You are,” he said flatly, obviously a question despite the lack of inflection.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“How else would I know to come here?” Jackson asked pointedly, trying to remain calm and not let on just how intimidating the man in front of him was up close.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Broad. Muscular. A handful of inches taller than Jackson himself and a face that looked like it meant business. Voice so dry it could put a desert to shame. The guy shifted his weight slightly, leaning forward just a touch.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Let him in Derek,” another man’s voice called out from further inside, cutting in before the guy could open his mouth to speak. “Any friend of Stiles’…”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Derek shot a look back over his shoulder at whoever else was inside the apartment, then looked back at Jackson and pointedly stepped aside. “You can come in,” he said, unnecessarily.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Thanks,” Jackson replied, walking past Derek and into the apartment with far more confidence than he felt. He was there to get proof, he reminded himself. Get the drugs, get out, get them to Stilinski’s dad so this whole fucking McCall issue could be put to bed. If he was lucky maybe it would even get the both of them kicked off the lacrosse team, if not put into rehab (or juvie).</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The inside of the apartment was different than he was expecting.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>A massive open-plan space broken up by just a couple of walls, a balcony-style second floor accessible by a spiral staircase. Exposed brick, polished wood flooring, black marble counters on what had to have been a recently installed or remodelled kitchen. Furniture and décor elegant but minimalist. Nothing like the gauche gaudy opulence of the nouveau riche <em>or</em> the drug den he’d been expecting based on the look of the building.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>A man sat on one of the suede leather couches, presumably the owner of the voice that had spoken up before. Mid-thirties maybe, dressed in designer jeans and a burgundy sweater. Somehow making business loafers look casual.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Derek looked like the kind of guy Jackson expected a drug dealer to look like. This guy, whoever he was, looked more like he should be sitting in a corporate office somewhere.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Nice place,” Jackson commented, partly to be polite and partly because he really had been expecting a derelict space with maybe a single couch and a bunch of crates.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The guy on the couch smiled. “Thank you, it’s new,” he said, his tone casual and friendly. Not exactly what Jackson had been expecting. “I’m Peter,” he continued, and gestured to the man still standing near the door, “and this is Derek. And you are…?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Jackson. Whittemore,” he clarified a beat later, as if there were more than one Jackson in Beacon Hills. Also to subtly let these two know that if they did beat him up or kill him they’d have the district attorney on their asses for it.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Jackson,” Peter nodded. He looked the teen up and down from face to shoes and back again – an obvious and somewhat rude gesture that was meant to be noticed. Jackson tried not to let on how much it prickled his pride to have a frickin’ <em>drug dealer</em> judging him. “So,” Peter continued, his assessment concluded, “what brings you here then? Without Stiles. I would have assumed he’d be here to introduce you if that was what he intended.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“He doesn’t know that I’m here,” Jackson admitted with a shrug. He stuck his hands in his pockets, looking casually around at the apartment to let Peter know that he wasn’t afraid to take his eyes off him. “I know about you though. Both of you,” he added with a jerk of his head in Derek’s direction. “And McCall.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Stiles told you?” Derek asked bluntly, arms crossed, sounding deeply unconvinced.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Not exactly,” Jackson shrugged again. He smirked. “But it wasn’t hard to figure out. McCall’s not really subtle, you know.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Derek sighed. Deeply. And pinched the bridge of his nose. As if McCall not being subtle was an old and familiar irritation. “No.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“So you came here on your own, of your own accord,” Peter said, a smile tucked in the corners of his mouth, “after coming to our little secret all on your own? I’m impressed. Surprised that you haven’t gone running off to report the scary monsters to the ‘authorities’.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Why would I do that?” Jackson asked pointedly. “When I’m not looking to get anyone in trouble.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Then what exactly are you here for?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>There it was.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Jackson’s fingers found the cash he’d tucked away into his jacket pocket, just holding onto it without taking it out. He’d come prepared, though he didn’t really know how much street drugs actually went for.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I want what McCall has,” he said plainly. “And I’m willing to pay whatever I need to to get it.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Peter’s eyebrows rose. Near the doorway Derek snorted softly, a sound like an aborted laugh.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Jackson remained calm, reasoning that there was no way these guys would turn down the offer of an extra mark-up, a new client, whatever. Drug dealing was a business, right? Businessmen never turned down a good deal.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Peter stood. He got to his feet in a slow, smooth movement that struck Jackson as being predatory in a way. Like a panther sizing up the distance before a pounce. He crossed the polished wood floor in his shiny loafers without making a sound and stopped just outside of arm’s reach in front of the teen.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Standing up, Jackson could see that Peter wasn’t that much taller than himself, but he had a presence that made him seem much larger than that.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You’re willing to pay,” Peter parroted the words almost mockingly, a dangerous quality to his voice and posture that had Jackson wishing he’d given this whole idea more thought before rushing in half-cocked with false confidence and a pocket full of cash. “Whatever you need to. You want to buy in, is that it? Make a transaction? Cash for goods. Is that what you think you’re here to do?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Isn’t it?” Jackson asked stubbornly, doubling down because what else was he supposed to do?</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Jesus Christ,” Derek muttered from his position off to the side, actually sounding disgusted. As if offering money for goods was somehow <em>insulting</em>.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Shit, what if Stilinski wasn’t paying in cash? The idea flashed through Jackson’s head in a horrifying moment of clarity. It’s not like the Stilinskis had a lot of money. Stiles didn’t work, not that Jackson knew of, so how the fuck would he even be funding McCall’s drug habit? And McCall certainly wasn’t paying for it, that much was obvious.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I’m not fucking you for it,” Jackson blurted out, simultaneously kicking himself for even bringing it up.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Jesus Christ,” Derek repeated, while Peter stared at Jackson with a look of disdain.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The silence stretched for a few very uncomfortable seconds during which Jackson wondered whether he was going to wind up getting beaten for insulting them.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Eventually Peter shook his head. “I’m afraid you’re not a good fit,” he said finally, oozing contempt from every pore. “Get out.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I said get out,” Peter told him flatly, even turning his back on Jackson to walk away further into the apartment. “Don’t come back. One mistake is enough, I won’t have another one running around pissing on my trees.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Confused, but also starting to get angry, Jackson opened his mouth to reply but wisely shut it again when a hand clamped down on one of his shoulders. He followed the hand to its owner, a lick of fear curling in his gut at the look on Derek’s face.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Come on,” the older man said, using the hand on his shoulder to steer him to the door, his grip as unforgiving as steel. He used that grip to push Jackson out into the hallway, hard enough that the teen actually stumbled a bit before he regained his footing. “If you tell anyone about us,” Derek told him before he slammed the door shut, “I’ll rip your throat out.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The metal door clanged shut and Jackson stood there in the corridor for a few seconds, not really sure how he should feel.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>On the one hand… he’d come out unharmed. On the other hand… he’d been thrown out, threatened (seriously enough that his hands were shaking a little), and he hadn’t even managed to score any proof of McCall’s doping.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>At least he hadn’t been shot. That was a thing that happened to people who pissed off drug dealers, right? (<em>I’ll rip your throat out</em>, Derek had said, and Jackson fully believed that he was the kind of man who’d actually do it.)</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He was alive and unharmed. He should try and stay that way.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Jackson hurried back to his car, glad that his hands had stopped shaking by the time he got there. He sped off, away from the industrial area and back to Beacon Hills proper as fast as he dared, wondering how the fuck he was going to expose McCall’s drug use without any actual hard proof to show as evidence. (Without risking his neck by pissing off those two asshole dealers who apparently didn’t want money and were concerned about how their clients ‘fit’?)</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He’d figure it out.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Sooner or later he’d figure it out.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Most People Wouldn't Assume "Werewolves"</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Jackson comes into some more information and, depending on how you look at it, either fails spectacularly at self-awareness or is extremely good at denial.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He knew something was up the moment he set foot inside Beacon Hills High and suddenly Stiles Stilinski was in his face, all flailing limbs and too much energy as he demanded;</p>
<p>“What the actual hell, Jackson? What were you even thinking showing up there – and we have to talk about your sneaking abilities because I’m kind of impressed despite myself – out of the blue and just <em>telling Peter that you know</em>!” The last part was said in a weird whisper-shout that was far too close to Jackson’s face for his liking.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He pushed Stilinski back out of his personal space, unimpressed when Stilinski kept talking to ask; “How exactly <em>do</em> you know by the way?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Dude, you’re not subtle,” Jackson replied with what he felt was an appropriate amount of condescension. “I’m surprised the whole school doesn’t know.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Stilinski gave him an odd look, falling into step with him as Jackson started towards his locker. “And you’re just ok with it? I mean, this weird casual acceptance isn’t what I was imagining from you. Especially after talking to Peter about it. Are you sure you’re not just still processing?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Jackson had to stare at the other teen a moment. Seeing that Stiles was apparently <em>seriously asking him that</em>, Jackson rolled his eyes. “I don’t know why you think there’s anything to process. Like I said, it’s obvious. You think I wouldn’t notice what was going on in <em>my </em>team?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Ok, yeah, that’s fair. But,” Stiles pressed, “seriously, showing up at Derek and Peter’s place?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“What else was I going to do, ask <em>you</em>?” Jackson sneered, letting his facial expression say what Stilinski was clearly failing to pick up from his tone.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Undeterred by his tone or his expression, Stiles gave him a <em>look</em> in return. “You should have, yeah. And I could have told you that you’d be wasting your time trying to offer money so you can be like Scott. I could have told you that –”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Look,” Jackson interrupted, raising a hand. “I don’t care what you have to say. I don’t care what your creepy <em>friends</em> told you. What I do is my business.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He walked off then, leaving Stilinski standing in the hallway with his mouth open. He’d obviously been right in thinking that there was more to this deal than cash, but he couldn’t picture anyone in their right mind thinking Stilinski’s ass was worth the trade. (He couldn’t picture Stilinski name-dropping his dealer like they were <em>friends</em> if it was something like that.)</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Shit, maybe it was a gang thing.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Maybe that’s what Peter had meant about not being a good fit. He could see Stilinski being a part of it but McCall being too Mr-Nice-Guy to get involved directly. Or maybe McCall didn’t even know – that seemed more like the oblivious happy go lucky loser Jackson was familiar with.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Mulling over that thought, Jackson resolved to keep an eye on things for a bit before he decided how to proceed.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>More information was needed before anyone would even think to believe that the sheriff’s son had gotten himself involved with some kind of gang.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>-</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It was a few days of watching and biding his time before anything happened past Stilinski’s usual squirreliness and McCall’s annoyingly upbeat athleticism. And when it did, that something significant was so utterly <em>stupid</em> that Jackson really had to question this guy Peter’s judgement.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Because on Monday morning, six days after Jackson had been turned away from their drug den or whatever, Stilinski showed up at school with Isaac Lahey riding shotgun in his jeep. Lahey, looking taller without his slouch and dressed in a black leather jacket that Jackson would swear he’d seen that Derek guy wearing a couple of weeks ago.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Lahey got out of the jeep with a confidence that he didn’t normally possess, a weird sort of bounce in his step that had never been seen before. He was grinning at Stilinski as the both of them walked up the steps. And over at the bike rack McCall was glaring at the both of them.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>So the two weirdo peas were no longer in a pod together.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Instead, Isaac ‘I jump at my own shadow’ Lahey seemed to have suddenly gained a backbone and a new friend.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Or was it <em>friends</em>.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You’re obsessing,” Danny informed him at lunch, after catching Jackson staring at Stilinski and his new pal for the third time in as many minutes. “It’s really not healthy, Jacks.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I know something’s up with them,” Jackson insisted. “It’s a gang thing or something.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“A gang thing,” Danny repeated, glancing back over his shoulder to see the two of them hunched over a phone together on the opposite side of the cafeteria. “Stiles and Isaac. In a gang. Come on, Jacks, that’s about the most paranoid thing I’ve heard you say and I was there for the ‘she’s going to replace me with a Pomeranian’ rant of freshman year.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“But why else would Lahey be acting so weird?” Jackson asked pointedly. “I mean, look at him, it’s like he suddenly grew a backbone overnight. And hanging out with Stilinski…?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Danny shrugged. “It’s probably got something to do with his new foster family.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Train of thought completely derailed, Jackson blinked across the table at his friend. “What? Stilinski’s in foster care?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Isaac, moron,” Danny said, the insult softened by a fond smile. “Mom filed the paperwork a few days ago. I don’t think she was supposed to tell me, but she knew we were in the same class and asked me to keep an eye out and see if I think the new family is treating him ok. I’m surprised you didn’t know, don’t you live across from his house?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Oh.” Jackson was a little ashamed to admit that no, he hadn’t known. The feelings that ran through him at that moment were complex – relief that Isaac was out of that house (shame because he <em>knew</em> bad things went on in that house, even if nobody could ever prove it), and a weird sort of anger at the sudden suspicion that Lahey’s new ‘foster family’ lived in an apartment in an industrial building on the edge of town. “No, I didn’t know.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Well that much was obvious.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Jackson thought a moment, trying to figure out just how insane it was to think that maybe somehow drug-dealer Peter and his bodyguard/whatever Derek had managed to get themselves appointed Lahey’s new foster parents. “Hey, did your mom say who the foster family was?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Danny looked briefly skywards as if asking for patience. “Jacks, I love you, but if this is about that gang thing again…”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I wasn’t going to –”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You had your face on again,” Danny told him. “You were totally going to.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Jackson sighed. He picked up the apple from his tray. “Fine,” he said reluctantly, “but when it turns out I was right, you’re going to have to kiss my ass.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>-</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Two weeks later Jackson witnessed Erica Reyes strutting down the hallway with Stilinski on one side and leather-jacket Lahey on the other, four inch heels on her feet, skin-tight skinny jeans showing off a body he didn’t know she even had, and a leather jacket over her bright red camisole top (he knew fashion, okay, sue him). The three of them looked thick as thieves as they casually walked past a pissed-off McCall and a troubled-looking Allison Argent.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I can’t believe you,” McCall spat at Stilinski as they walked past. “Are you <em>recruiting</em> for him now?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Eat my ass, McCall,” Erica shot back before Stilinski could even open his mouth.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Don’t engage,” Lahey advised her, far too late to make a difference and looking like he knew it (and thought it was funny). “We’ve got a truce, remember?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Stilinski shook his head, a weird half-smile/half-grimace twisting his mouth. Like he wanted to be amused but couldn’t quite get over McCall’s derision enough to do it. “I can answer for myself, guys,” he said as they walked off.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>McCall shook his head, watching them go with a clear look of disgust on his normally cheerful dopey face. Allison hesitantly touched his arm. “He’s right,” she said softly, quietly enough that Jackson almost didn’t hear it. “Peter’s…Peter’s allowed to recruit. My dad doesn’t like it either, but we can’t – we shouldn’t get involved.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Weirdly, McCall immediately turned to Allison with a pained look. “It’s not your fault,” he said. “Derek –”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Shh,” Allison shushed him, having finally caught sight of Jackson standing at his locker nearby.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>McCall glanced at him and made a face, then sighed. And Jackson was left with more questions than he’d had before.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>-</p>
<p> </p>
<p>So Stilinski was recruiting members for Peter, who’s whole operation so far seemed to be about turning quiet loner weirdos into leather-wearing fashion plates and possibly supplying them with amphetamines or other performance-enhancers. Meanwhile McCall was most likely taking the drugs but was also morally opposed to whatever Stilinski and his new friends were doing, which meant he was mostly hanging out with his girlfriend and <em>her</em> friends (which meant that he was sometimes hanging out with <em>Jackson’s</em> friends which was fucking <em>unacceptable</em>). Allison was involved somehow through her family, who apparently sold guns for a living and had some sort of truce with Peter.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Derek kept showing up after school to pick up Isaac and or Erica in his ridiculous muscle car while half the time Stilinski followed them in his jeep and the other half he stayed to try and talk McCall into being cool with whatever it was that was going on.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Which was about as far as Jackson had gotten with figuring this shit out.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It was like trying to keep track of a bunch of flies all buzzing around the same room. Like listening to half a conversation. He didn’t have all the facts and he didn’t have any way to <em>get</em> all the facts and it was driving him crazy.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>And forget trying to talk to any of them about it. He’d seen Reyes punch a dent into a locker the other day. <em>Reyes</em>. Who a couple of weeks ago wouldn’t have even been able to punch her way out of a wet paper bag. She’d been a walking epileptic dumpster fire and now it was as if she‘d never been sick a day in her life.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Danny kept giving him weird looks about it and Lydia was starting to get pissed at him for not ‘being there’ when he was with her.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>But he <em>had to know</em>. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>It was personal now. It wasn’t just because McCall had suddenly gone from the breathless wonder to wonder-boy on the field, it wasn’t because he wanted to shut up Stilinski and finally have him see some consequences for his actions, it was a matter of <em>principle</em>.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Why the fuck wasn’t he a good fit but Reyes and Lahey were?</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He didn’t even know exactly what it was they were a fit for, but whatever it was surely they weren’t in some way more <em>worthy</em> than he was.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>(Deep down he knew what he was thinking was ridiculous. He was angry because a drug lord had implied he wasn’t worth it, jealous of how confident those three seemed these days. It was stupid, but a part of him wanted that. He actually wanted to have Stilinski try to recruit him for whatever weird shit they were into.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Stupid.)</p>
<p> </p>
<p>On week three Boyd (whose first name Jackson didn’t even know) joined the group.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Boyd who was such a loner he rarely even ate lunch in the cafeteria. Boyd who barely spoke in class and regularly stayed late in the library for no apparent reason. <em>Boyd</em>, who had shown absolutely zero desire to be part of any group, was suddenly wearing his own leather jacket and hanging out with Stilinski’s weird little fashion gang.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The worst thing was that Jackson couldn’t figure out what the hell kind of connection these people had that made them worth recruiting. Stilinski was the sheriff’s kid, okay, he could see that being useful. But Lahey was nobody, literally less than nobody, a broken kid from a broken home with nothing of value to his name. Back in middle school Reyes had been voted ‘most likely to die before graduation’ in a write-in vote that Jackson totally hadn’t had anything to do with, her epilepsy so stupidly severe that it was a genuine surprise every time she showed up again after the summer break. And Boyd was practically a nonentity, his parents rumoured to be emotionally MIA after the disappearance of his little sister.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>They had literally nothing of value they could offer. No skills, no connections –</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Jackson’s mind stopped in its tracks. He could practically hear the screech of breaks.</p>
<p> </p>
<p><em>Holy shit</em>.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He had it. He’d figured it out.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The common denominator.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Because Stilinski might be the son of the sheriff, but the sheriff was also a notorious workaholic who frequently left his teenage son to fend for himself.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“What the shit, Stilinski?” Jackson confronted the little jackass in the boy’s toilets between classes (he’d practically had to stalk the guy to catch him at a time when he was alone and not surrounded by his new pals, it was the best he could do and he wasn’t happy about it either). “Those losers are a ‘good fit’ but I’ve actually got parents who pay attention to me so I’m not?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Stilinski had frozen momentarily, caught exiting one of the stalls. He looked at Jackson, seemingly considering his options, then walked past the other teen to the sinks and started washing his hands.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You pick some weird times for conversation, Jackson,” he said, eyeing the other boy through the mirror. “Anybody ever tell you that? Because I’m telling you that. You pick weird times for conversations.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Cut the crap and answer the question,” Jackson demanded, planting himself in between Stilinski and the exit so he’d have no choice but to answer. “It’s because of my parents, isn’t it?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“No,” Stilinski answered promptly.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Bullshit.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Uh, no,” Stilinski’s tone of voice made Jackson want to punch him in the face, “it’s, uh, it’s really not about your parents, man.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“No? So it’s just coincidence that all three of those assholes have parents who could care less about them?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Stilinski winced. “Yeah, that.” He waved his hands under the dryer, then gave it a dirty look when it wouldn’t start and wiped his hands off on his jeans instead. “That’s why you’re not a fit,” he said bluntly, turning to face Jackson properly. “You think they want someone around who’s going to call everyone losers and think he’s better than they are? It’s not happening, Jackson. We know full well if Peter actually gave you the bite you’d just fuck off and do whatever you wanted, you wouldn’t join the pack so I don’t even know why you’re asking.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“So it’s because I’m independent?” Jackson asked incredulously, filing away the words ‘bite’ and ‘pack’ for later investigation.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Stilinski sighed – a deep, sarcastic sigh. “No,” he said, in an overly patient tone that Jackson had <em>never</em> heard him use before. “It’s because you’re an arrogant dick who wouldn’t join anything he couldn’t be the boss of.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“McCall’s not part of your ‘pack’,” Jackson pointed out. He knew it was mean even as he was saying it, but it wasn’t in him to stop. Stilinski had said something that hurt him, now it was time to hurt him back harder.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The way the other boy physically flinched back made Jackson feel guilty, but he didn’t let it show.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Yeah,” Stilinski agreed, his voice softer than before. Resigned. “He‘s not. Look, I gotta get to class. If you really want to argue your case go talk to Derek, convince him and he’ll convince Peter. But I wouldn’t hold your breath, dude. He’s not big on bullshit.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>-</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Jackson sat on Stilinski’s blunt suggestion for two days while trying to figure out how to find Derek when he was alone in order to talk to him without Stilinski, Lahey, Reyes and Boyd (in any number and combination) listening in. Going back to the apartment in the industrial area was out of the question. Not only would that risk Peter being there too – and Jackson needed to talk to Derek <em>without</em> Peter – but he was pretty sure that was where Lahey was living now that he wasn’t under his father’s roof.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He supposed he could cut class and try and catch the guy in the parking lot before school got out, but the idea of cutting class to go talk to a drug dealer (a drug dealer’s bodyguard? What was the relationship there?) was maybe going a step too far.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Because showing up at the apartment the first time hadn’t been.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>God, this was so <em>stupid</em>.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He was actually considering giving up on the whole thing – that was how frustrated he was – when he got a text from an unknown number.</p>
<p> </p>
<p><em>I heard you want to talk to me</em>.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Full words, perfect grammar. Jackson stared at the screen for a moment in disgust.</p>
<p> </p>
<p><em>derek?</em> He sent back, pretty sure he already knew the answer.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The little bubble indicating a response being typed showed up almost immediately. Jackson waited impatiently, tapping his foot on the floor.</p>
<p> </p>
<p><em>Yes. Stiles gave me your number</em>.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Stilinski had his number? Jackson wondered, momentarily confused before he recalled a group assignment from last year. Groups had been assigned alphabetically, so it had been sheer bad luck that they’d wound up working together.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>Do you want to talk or not?</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Jackson considered. Did he want to talk? To ‘plead his case’ as Stilinski had said. His fingers were typing before he’d properly made the decision. It was too late to do anything else. He was <em>invested</em> in this. He had to know why exactly McCall got a pass on ‘the bite’ but he didn’t. He had to know why he wasn’t good enough for their stupid ‘pack’.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>yea. i want 2 talk in person tho. alone. where cn we meet?</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>There was a long pause.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Jackson stared at the screen of his iPhone, all of his attention and willpower focused on getting a reply and getting one <em>now</em>. Finally the response popped up on the screen.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>Do you know the old Hale house?</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Yes, he knew the old Hale house. Who didn’t? It was a creepy burnt-out building on the edge of the preserve, squatting at the edge of the forest after the owners had fucked off to who knows where. According to Jackson’s dad it had maybe another year before the council could tear it down. Some sort of legal grey area thing to do with property taxes and condemned buildings on privately owned land.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Jackson checked the time. He flicked his gaze out the window, noted that it was dark, and contemplated the possibility that going to some creepy abandoned house in the woods to meet a drug dealer might actually be the stupidest thing he’d ever done.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>i can be there in half an hour</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He’d bring a can of mace. It’d be fine.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>Fine. See you there.</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Jackson got up off the bed. He went to put his phone away, thought better of it, and fired off a text to Danny asking him to call the cops if he didn’t text or call him again before midnight. Danny’s reply was a string of question marks and an okay. No actual questions, and no judgement, which was part of why Jackson considered him his best friend.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He threw on a grey hoodie over his shirt, grabbed the keys to the Porsche, and didn’t bother leaving a note for his parents. They might check in on him, they might not. If they saw he wasn’t there they might text, but nobody would be worried if he didn’t come home until late. It was only if he didn’t come home at all (without letting them know where he was) that he’d be in trouble.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The beauty of not having a curfew.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He took the Porsche out and didn’t think about how other kids’ parents grounded them if they were out too late with their friends.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Beacon Hills wasn’t large by any means, but half an hour was still an accurate measure of how long it took to get to the old Hale house. If only because he missed the turn the first time and had to double back to find the old, overgrown driveway that led up to the house. He parked the car. Turned off the engine and regretted it when the headlights turned off with it.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Feeling like it was too late to turn them back on, Jackson used his phone for a torch instead and walked up to the charred front steps.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He was on the second step when light suddenly flared from inside the house. It flickered, dancing in a way that electric light just <em>didn’t do</em>.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Jackson hesitated. He considered bolting back to the car and forgetting this insane fucking venture.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Before he could get much farther than shifting his weight a bit suddenly there was a figure standing in the open yawning maw of the front door, illuminated from behind by the flickering light of a hurricane lamp set on the floor.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Derek. Looking like a fucking mobster in his slick leather jacket. Jackson half expected to see a gun tucked into his waistband or a barbed-wire bat hanging from one of his hands.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>For a moment the man just stared at him. A weird sort of stalemate where Jackson didn’t move and Derek didn’t move and they both just stood there not moving.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Then Derek stepped aside and gestured for Jackson to enter the house. “Come on,” he said, not exactly <em>friendly</em> but also not aggressive or annoyed. “There’s no chairs, but it’s still nicer inside.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p><em>Nicer</em>, in Jackson’s opinion, was clearly subjective.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The inside of the house was as black and charred as the outside. It was empty of anything but leaves and dirt, the hurricane lantern the only sign of any sort of occupation. Wind whistled through the empty windows and the caved-in roof upstairs. Frankly it was depressing and kind of creepy, but at least there was enough light that he could actually see without the torch app on his phone.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Alright,” Derek said. He’d moved to stand near the lamp, arms crossed as he looked at Jackson. “Stiles said you wanted to talk.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Yeah,” Jackson agreed, then stopped.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>His usual modus operandi was more along the lines of coming at shit sideways so the other person said it out loud first. Actually just <em>stating</em> things wasn’t much his style. He wasn’t used to it, didn’t like the vulnerability. But he was going to <em>have to be</em> vulnerable if he wanted to actually get answers to his questions. He’d have to put himself on the line if he was going to get what he wanted. That much had been made clear.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“So… this isn’t my usual way of doing things,” Jackson started. Manipulative as it might be, he needed the edge that truth would bring. Anything extra he could use to get his way he’d use. “I don’t normally do this… asking to talk or whatever. But I have to know. I need to find out and I can’t do that on my own. So, yeah, I just thought you should know I’m not good at this.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“At talking.” The way Derek said it didn’t sound like a question. There was a pause, then the older man shrugged. “We’ll figure it out.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Yeah.” Jackson took a breath. “Stilinski said you’re not big on bullshit.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Derek’s eyebrows twitched up slightly. “Patience isn’t my strong suit,” he admitted.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I’ll keep it short then. Why McCall and not me?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Derek’s eyebrows raised further. He shifted his weight but didn’t uncross his arms, seeming to scrutinise Jackson anew. “So Stiles didn’t tell you anything,” he surmised, saying what (Jackson had thought) they already knew. “You really figured it out all on your own.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Jackson rolled his eyes. “Like I said before, McCall’s not subtle. Neither’s the rest of your ‘pack’, by the way. It’s pretty obvious if you’re looking for it.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Most people don’t look for it,” Derek replied flatly, though he didn’t sound angry to be getting called out on his weird little gang’s behaviour. “Unless they’re hunters.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I’m not a hunter,” Jackson said dismissively. Hunting was for people whose idea of a good time was walking around the woods all day in orange jackets. Though whatever the fuck that had to do with noticing a bunch of kids acting weird was beyond him. He repeated the question; “Why McCall and not me?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Derek shifted. His arms uncrossed and he rubbed a hand over his mouth and chin, clearly trying to figure out how to say whatever it was he was going to say. “You don’t know the full story,” he said eventually. “Scott was… a mistake. You have to understand that my uncle didn’t actually mean to give him the bite. When Scott was turned things were… things were difficult. We weren’t in the same position we are now. Scott didn’t ask for it and now he can’t go back. That’s just the way it is.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>That made very little sense.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Scott was the first, okay. But if he was a mistake why can’t you fix it?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“<em>Fix</em> it?” Derek repeated incredulously. “You mean kill him.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“No!” Jackson blurted out the word in shock, suddenly and thoroughly reminded that he was in the middle of nowhere talking to someone very dangerous about illegal things. “That’s not what I meant! I don’t – you think I want anyone dead? No.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Well there’s no other way to ‘fix it’,” Derek replied, including very sarcastic air quotes. “You might not have figured this out yet, but there’s no cure. Once the bite takes you’re a werewolf for life, there’s no going back. It’s not a decision to be taken lightly and frankly that’s part of why we’re not about to offer the bite to someone who doesn’t seem to respect it.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>What.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Jackson blinked. His mouth opened, then shut again as he quickly reassessed the situation. Because <em>what</em>. He had a sudden flashback to a moment when he’d swear he’d seen McCall’s eyes glow, dismissed because he’d assumed he was imagining things.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Okay.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Okay. So it wasn’t drugs. Suddenly Jackson had to reassess every observation he’d made. Every interaction he’d had with Stilinski since McCall’s weird transformation. The interaction he’d had with Derek before this – the interaction with <em>Peter</em>, who was clearly the pack leader. No wonder cash wasn’t a consideration. A wolf pack was a family unit, wasn’t it? (He vaguely recalled something like that from some documentary he’d watched or some book he’d read.) He hadn’t just been rejected as a candidate for the bite, he’d been rejected as a candidate for their <em>family</em>. But Lahey, Reyes and Boyd were just fine?</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He hadn’t even wanted to join their weird little group when he’d thought it was just a gang thing.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>So why did it hurt?</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You look surprised,” Derek added bluntly, after only about a second of silence. “Didn’t realise it was for forever when you asked for it?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Uh…” <em>No. I didn’t realise I was asking to become a fucking werewolf</em>. “There’s just… a lot of myths and stuff that say there are cures,” Jackson said, floundering a bit. (He was pretty sure there were myths involving cures for lycanthropy?) “Anyway, that’s not important –” <em>Wasn’t it? What the fuck, self?</em> “– what’s important is…”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>What? </em>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <em>What was important?</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“What’s important is why don’t you want me?” Jackson froze. He considered taking it back.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He <em>wanted</em> to take it back. Had wanted to the second it exited his mouth. He couldn’t though. It was out there in the world now. A question ripped right from the small, soft innards at the core of himself. A question posed not just to the pack, but to the universe itself. To the friends that had abandoned him before he learned how to wield popularity as armour. To the biological parents who had left him before he was even born. There was no going back from that question, so his only option was to own it.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“For the pack,” Jackson specified, only a half-second after his embarrassing freeze. “Why don’t you want me for your pack?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Derek looked about as stunned as Jackson had felt when he’d realised what he was saying. Like someone had just up and smacked him across the face with a fish.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It made him look more human. Approachable. It struck Jackson that he felt like Derek was <em>less</em> dangerous knowing that he was a werewolf than he had when he’d thought Derek was a drug dealer.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You…” Derek shook his head, shaking off some of that shock, “Jackson, you don’t come across like you would want to be pack. You don’t… you don’t act like you want to be part of anything. You tracked us down and offered money for the bite, like it was a transaction and not something that’s supposed to come with ties and responsibilities. I’m pretty sure I remember Stiles saying you bullied him and Scott since middle school. Why would we even think you wanted to be pack?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Rejection dropped like a weight into his stomach. Jackson floundered a moment, trying to sort his own thoughts out well enough to reply without giving away how upset he was.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I don’t,” he said finally. “I mean, I didn’t… I don’t know,” Jackson turned away, frustrated with himself. “I didn’t mean to say that, okay? I don’t know why I did. I don’t want to be part of some stupid loser club, so… Forget it. Okay? Just forget it.” He started walking, hurrying back to the car, back to the safety of the Porsche and away from all of these uncomfortable feelings stirring in him.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He didn’t quite make it to the driver’s side door before Derek was grabbing hold of his arm with fingers that felt like iron bands.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Don’t,” Derek said firmly, an uncomfortably intense look in his eyes when Jackson reluctantly turned to look at him. “Don’t deflect. Don’t act like you’re angry when you’re hurting. It doesn’t help, believe me, I know all about it.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I’m not –“</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“We can smell it,” Derek told him, tapping his own nose for emphasis. “Emotions have a certain kind of scent. You were nervous when you talked to me and Peter, but you didn’t give off much more than that. Now you’re hurt and you’re trying not to show it but lashing out wont do you any good.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>So Derek could smell his feelings. <em>Great</em>. Embarrassment probably added a nice bouquet to whatever else he was giving off.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“What good’s anything else going to do?” Jackson demanded. “You just said you don’t want me around.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I said I didn’t think you wanted to be pack.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I <em>don’t</em>.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Much to Jackson’s ire, Derek actually smiled at him. “Werewolves are also polygraphs,” he said drily. “We can hear people’s heartbeats.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“<em>Fuck</em>.” Jackson slumped back against the side of the car. “Okay. Fine. I <em>don’t want to deal with this</em>. How’s that?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Better. But you are going to deal with it.” Derek looked unreasonably pleased with himself, smirking at Jackson as if he were genuinely enjoying the teen’s emotional pain. “I’ll talk to Peter. We’ll see what we can come up with and get back to you.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I don’t –“ Jackson started again, but Derek was gone before he’d even finished the second syllable. Just gone. Vanished into the trees as if he’d never been there.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Vanished <em>on foot</em>.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Werewolves were fucking fast. McCall must be holding back on the field because Jackson had <em>never</em> seen him move that fast. Of course that thought just sparked Jackson’s anger again as he thought about how nice it must be to coast by on supernatural powers and not have to actually work for it.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. A Desperate Avoidance of Self-Reflection</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Jackson experiences some character growth and completely fails to recognise it. Scott and Stiles' friendship may have just experienced its death knell.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A handful of days passed without incident.</p><p> </p><p>Without much incident.</p><p> </p><p>Jackson went to school, slouched through his classes (while still taking notes and paying attention – he wasn’t about to let this shit set him back any), and caught shit from Lydia for ignoring her. He promised to make it up to her and subsequently had to sit through yet another movie night with some romance film he couldn’t care less about. She knew something was up with him, and he knew that she knew, but they didn’t have the kind of relationship that was based on talking about feelings and so it just kind of sat there unacknowledged.</p><p> </p><p>She asked about his plans for the future. He made noises about taking her somewhere nice. And Danny rolled his eyes at him for their ‘straight people bullshit’.</p><p> </p><p>Then, one day after school, Jackson came home to the sound of someone moving around in the kitchen.</p><p> </p><p>It was unexpected, because his mom was very rarely home before five – what with her book club and her jazz club and her gym classes and whatever – and his dad always worked late. They had a housekeeper who came twice a week, but it wasn’t one of those days either.</p><p> </p><p>He moved through the house cautiously, phone in hand in case he needed to call 911. And came to a sudden, abortive stop when Peter walked casually out of the kitchen holding a cup of coffee that had clearly just been made using the espresso machine Jackson’s mom had bought six months ago and subsequently never used.</p><p> </p><p>“Ah, you’re home,” Peter said, as if his presence in Jackson’s house was totally normal, “I was starting to wonder if you had some sort of practice. I have limited time before your parents get home after all, it would’ve been a shame to waste it.”</p><p> </p><p>“What are you doing in my house?” Jackson asked. A reasonable question. And an even more reasonable one; “How did you even get in?”</p><p> </p><p>“Home security systems are only useful if you set the alarm,” Peter replied, not exactly answering either question. He wandered nonchalantly through the dining room and out towards the sitting room (different from the living room because it was used exclusively for hosting guests), forcing Jackson to either follow him or lose sight of him altogether.</p><p> </p><p>Jackson followed.</p><p> </p><p>“That doesn’t answer anything,” Jackson pointed out, though he was now silently judging his mom for not turning on the alarm. “What are you doing in my house?”</p><p> </p><p>Peter paused briefly in the sitting room, an assessing gaze sweeping over the furniture within. He sat down on one of the cream leather couches, took a sip of his coffee, and turned that assessing gaze back on Jackson himself. “Derek told me about your chat,” he said calmly. “He would be joining us, but it’s a training day for the puppies and they need someone there to teach them or I’ll come back to find they’ve gotten into the liquor cabinet and wasted it all testing their metabolisms.”</p><p> </p><p>Jackson sat, reluctantly, on the couch opposite the one Peter had chosen. There was a clue there, he noted, in what the older man had just said. A clue that said werewolf metabolisms ran faster than those of normal humans. That said, there wasn’t much in the way of clues as to why exactly he was there.</p><p> </p><p>In Jackson’s house. Sitting on his mother’s favourite couch and drinking coffee he hadn’t been offered.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m not looking to join your pack,” Jackson said, pretty much just because admitting to anything else was beyond him at this point.</p><p> </p><p>Admitting to anything else would mean facing up to all of those issues he kept buried in the darkest parts of him. Dragging them out into the light and exposing them. Offering himself up for judgement and scrutiny, knowing that he wasn’t nearly as good (as <em>worthy</em>) as he pretended to be.</p><p> </p><p>He’d learned early on that acceptance was conditional.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m not here to offer you the bite,” Peter responded, and sipped his coffee.</p><p> </p><p>He let Jackson sit on that for a while, very obviously watching the teen for any sort of reaction while Jackson tried very obviously not to give him one.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m here to formally invite you to our next gathering,” Peter said, breaking the silence as easily as if he’d never stopped talking in the first place. “Come take a look, observe at a distance or immerse yourself, whichever suits you best at the time. Come have a look at what a pack is and give yourself a better idea of what it is we do – what you would be expected to do should you ever ask to join us. You’re intelligent enough to have figured out some things on your own,” Peter added with a nod, “but there’s a lot you’re missing that you won’t find out from observation alone. Especially not if all you’re doing is watching McCall metaphorically piss on the walls to mark his territory while my betas try to ignore him. Heaven forbid you ask <em>him</em> for information,” he rolled his eyes, “I hate to think what kind of bullshit nonsense his little hunter girlfriend has been dripping into his ears.”</p><p> </p><p>“So you’re, what? Inviting me on a field trip?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes.”</p><p> </p><p>Jackson opened his mouth, then shut it again. He thought a moment, then gave Peter a very sceptical look. “You broke into my house for that?”</p><p> </p><p>Peter gave him a look. One that promised a very particular brand of humour. “Of course not,” he said, the corners of his lips curled in amusement, “I also did it to see how you would react. Threats and panicking have no place in or around my pack, Jackson. I hope you remember that when you come and visit.”</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>The ‘formal invitation’ was for a Saturday, but Jackson still had two days of school to go through to get there. He expected them to be pretty much normal, and then promptly wondered why exactly he’d thought that when Erica showed up at his locker on Thursday morning.</p><p> </p><p>Jackson didn’t see her walk up to him, didn’t notice that she was there until he shut his locker and saw her leaning against the next locker over.</p><p> </p><p>It was like he blinked and she was there, wearing a leather skirt and a red sweater combo that somehow reminded him of the way Peter dressed. She smiled at him, red lips parting to show her teeth.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes?” Jackson asked, trying not to look like he was checking her mouth for fangs. “What do you want?”</p><p> </p><p>“Nothing,” she replied, her smile stretching just a little.</p><p> </p><p>An intimidation tactic, he thought. She was trying to make him squirm. The way most guys would squirm if they were being aggressively smiled at by a sexy blonde in a leather skirt.</p><p> </p><p>Jackson, used to aggressive manoeuvres by sexier redheads, just rolled his eyes and started off down the hallway. “Whatever.”</p><p> </p><p>Erica followed, keeping pace with him easily despite the three-inch heels on her knee length boots. “So I heard you might be coming over on Saturday,” she said, smirking at him. “Isaac said,” she added when Jackson opened his mouth to ask where she’d heard that. “We have a group chat. He heard Derek and Uncle Peter talking about it and texted us everything last night.”</p><p> </p><p>Jackson debated the likelihood of getting away from her before class started, resentful that as a werewolf she was both stronger and faster than he was. People were starting to notice them, staring after him as he stalked down the hallway with Erica at his side.</p><p> </p><p>He could tell her to piss off, but that might put that whole invite thing in jeopardy and for some unfathomable reason he actually wanted to go. If only just to see what the big deal was about the whole ‘pack’ thing. To get some information on McCall maybe, something he could use to get him kicked off the team.</p><p> </p><p>That’s what he was telling himself anyway.</p><p> </p><p>It had absolutely nothing to do with the way Stilinski and his werewolf pals seemed so comfortable in their own skins. Nothing to do with the way they all seemed to group together and look out for each other.</p><p> </p><p>“You call him ‘Uncle’?” Jackson settled on finally, injecting as much scorn into his tone as physically possible.</p><p> </p><p>“What else am I going to call him?” Erica asked pointedly, “Alpha? <em>Daddy</em>? That’s just creepy. So are you coming to our house or not?”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know,” Jackson shrugged, trying to ignore the way people were looking at him. “Maybe.”</p><p> </p><p><em>Yes</em>.</p><p> </p><p>He was going. He was definitely going. He’d already told Danny he wouldn’t be able to hang out on Saturday, though he was pretty sure his best friend thought it was because he’d be with Lydia and not because he was going to go meet a bunch of werewolves at their den.</p><p> </p><p>He wasn’t about to say that out loud though.</p><p> </p><p>“If you come over you can’t be a dick,” Erica told him bluntly. “We all agreed. If you’re a dick, we get to kick you out and then you can’t come back. We still remember all the shitty stuff you’ve done,” she added aggressively, her smirk not quite matching her tone. “If you come over and act like that we’ll kick your ass.”</p><p> </p><p>“You think I’m going to be nice to you just because you can beat me up?” Jackson asked incredulously.</p><p> </p><p>“No. I think you’re going to be nice because if you’re not then Uncle Peter will make sure nobody ever finds the body.” Erica smiled sweetly at him. The expression did not make her look any less intimidating.</p><p> </p><p>Jackson stared at her. The threat hung in the air, uncomfortably heavy.</p><p> </p><p>He realised he’d stopped walking. They were standing in front of his homeroom door.</p><p>Erica flashed a grin at him. She bumped her shoulder against his and started to flounce off, the seriousness of her threat replaced with a cheerful grin. “Come sit with us at lunch,” she instructed, “kay?”</p><p> </p><p>She didn’t wait for a reply, just leaving Jackson standing there wondering what the fuck he was getting into and if he’d be risking harm to himself if he didn’t show up at their table later.</p><p> </p><p>During his morning classes Jackson wavered back and forth on what he should do. He could ignore the invite and sit at his usual table with his usual crowd, exchange idle banter with Danny and the other guys from the team and risk Erica’s wrath. He could sit himself down at the ‘loser’ table with a group of kids his friends classified as weirdos and risk a serious blow to his reputation. Or he could just not show at the cafeteria at all…</p><p> </p><p>It was a valid option.</p><p> </p><p>He could take his Porsche and go get some food off campus (risking detention if he got caught, but whatever). He could go hang out in the library and claim he needed to study (except he didn’t).</p><p> </p><p>He’d still maybe be risking Erica’s wrath, but he’d miss out on the hit to his reputation and the inevitable questions that would follow his sitting down with Stilinski and the others.</p><p> </p><p>Except the whole point about not wanting to piss off Erica Reyes of all people was that if he pissed her off then maybe she’d convince Peter to rescind his invitation. And he was <em>invested</em>, damn it.</p><p> </p><p>He was not at all keen on examining why he was invested, but the point was he <em>needed</em> Saturday to happen.</p><p> </p><p>He needed to prove himself, needed to show that he was worth just as much (if not more) than the kids who’d already been chosen to be in the pack.</p><p> </p><p>He wasn’t a dickbag like McCall and he wasn’t a loser who needed saving.</p><p> </p><p>He was Jackson Goddamn Whittemore and he wasn’t afraid of anything.</p><p> </p><p>So, when the time to choose finally rolled around, Jackson pretended like his heart wasn’t sitting squarely in his throat as he casually exited the lunch line and made his way towards the ‘loser’ table. Erica was sitting there already, munching on an apple as red as her lips, Isaac seated across from her with a paper bag lunch and a slightly disbelieving look on his face as he watched Jackson’s approach.</p><p> </p><p>“You actually invited him,” Jackson heard Isaac say to Erica, sounding not at all impressed.</p><p> </p><p>“He’ll be nice,” Erica replied, glancing back over her shoulder at Jackson and smirking at him. “I threatened him good.”</p><p> </p><p>“Most people don’t think threatening is a good skill to have,” Isaac said dryly, though he too looked as if he might be smirking a bit.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m the only bitch in a pack full of boys,” Erica flashed a proud grin, “it’s my <em>job</em> to be threatening. Peter would totally agree. Hi,” she said to Jackson when he finally set his tray down and sat with them. “I didn’t think you’d show.”</p><p> </p><p>“How could I resist when you were so welcoming?” Jackson asked, full of sarcasm.</p><p> </p><p>“We’re welcoming him now?” Boyd asked, appearing on the other side of the table with his own bagged lunch.</p><p> </p><p>“Erica’s threatening him,” Isaac replied, retrieving a sandwich from his lunch bag. “I’m not saying anything.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m going to reserve judgement,” Boyd decided, the sandwich that he pulled from his own lunch bag looking suspiciously similar to the one Isaac was eating. As if they’d been given the same lunch, bagged by the same person.</p><p> </p><p>Jackson had a sudden mental image of Derek handing lunches out the window of his black Camaro. It should have been funny, but for some reason it made him feel kind of uncomfortable.</p><p> </p><p>Like maybe a bagged lunch was something to be envied.  </p><p> </p><p>He could feel eyes on his back, the weight of stares pressing in on him combined with that odd uncomfortable envy making Jackson wish he’d taken option number three and just not shown up at all.</p><p> </p><p>Erica’s elbow jabbed into his side. “Hey,” she said, making him look at her, “don’t shut down on us, Whittemore. I know I <em>threatened</em> you and all but you don’t have to be here if you don’t want to.”</p><p> </p><p>Jackson snorted. “I’m not going anywhere,” he announced stubbornly. “I don’t care what other people think.”</p><p> </p><p>The three werewolves exchanged meaningful glances and Jackson suddenly remembered the whole ‘werewolves are polygraphs’ thing. He then pretended he hadn’t remembered, and that his face wasn’t turning red from embarrassment at being caught in an obvious lie.</p><p> </p><p>Just to make things worse, that was when Stilinski showed up – with Jackson’s face suspiciously pink and the werewolves communicating with one another through pointed looks.</p><p> </p><p>Stilinski deposited his tray onto the table at Erica’s other side and leaned around her to look at Jackson. “So this is a thing now?” he asked, gaze moving from person to person around the table. “We’re making this a thing? Jackson’s hanging out with us and it’s a thing? You know we don’t have to make it a thing just because Derek and Peter invited him to the Saturday thing.”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s not a thing,” Jackson told him, sorely regretting his decisions from 8am onwards. “Erica invited me. That’s all.”</p><p> </p><p>“I wanted to see how he’d act without Derek and Uncle Peter around to watch him,” Erica told Stilinski, offering more information to him than she had to her fellow werewolves.</p><p> </p><p>Stilinski narrowed his eyes slightly at Jackson as if doing so could somehow divine the other teen’s intentions.</p><p> </p><p>Jackson glared back at him.</p><p> </p><p>“Okay, fair enough,” Stilinski agreed finally. “Though I’m pretty sure that whole theory about Jackson being on his best behaviour in front of Derek and Peter is sort of bullshit. I still say he doesn’t know what ‘best behaviour’ actually is.”</p><p> </p><p>“Right here,” Jackson stated bluntly. “I’m right here, Stilinski, I can hear you.”</p><p> </p><p>“I think it depends on what we think ‘best behaviour’ is supposed to be,” Isaac piped up thoughtfully. “I mean, Uncle Peter’s idea of good behaviour is pretty different than, say…”</p><p> </p><p>“Teachers?” Erica suggested. “Parents? McCall?”</p><p> </p><p>“The police,” Boyd added.</p><p> </p><p>“Right,” Isaac agreed.</p><p> </p><p>“But that still encompasses not actively looking to be a dickhead,” Stiles pointed out. “Peter’s probably a psychopath,” he said, like this was any kind of normal thing to say and just a fact that the pack accepted, “but he still wants a pack that going to be supportive and, you know, not full of assholes who can’t work together and don’t listen. No offence,” he added, looking right at Jackson.</p><p> </p><p>“Full offense taken,” Jackson shot back, feeling uncomfortable. “What, you think I can’t play well with others? I’m captain of the lacrosse team.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah. Captain,” Stilinski replied with a shrug that seemed to use his full body. “Not exactly a ‘team player’ position.”</p><p> </p><p>“I can be a team player,” Jackson insisted stubbornly, offended (and yet unable to justify being pissed off) by the smirks and snickers that ensued.</p><p> </p><p>“Sure you can, Whittemore,” Stilinski said, dripping so much sarcasm it was a surprise the table wasn’t wet. </p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>Friday was more of the same, and despite the fact that Jackson kept questioning his choices he also kept making the same ones. Nobody was waiting for him at his locker that morning but Isaac managed to show up at his elbow in time to walk into their first class together. Which was kind of weird, come to think of it, because Jackson was 90% certain they didn’t actually <em>have</em> a 1<sup>st</sup> period class together. But the teacher didn’t say anything and nobody else seemed to think anything weird was going on, so he kept his mouth shut about it.</p><p> </p><p>He got the invite to sit with the pack at lunch through text. He stared at his phone for much longer than necessary before firing off a one letter reply and attempting to think of something else. Which worked right up until the bell rang and he once again had to make the conscious choice to forgo sitting at his usual table with his actual friends for sitting at the ‘loser’ table.</p><p> </p><p>Still, Jackson did it. He sat with the pack at lunch, trading barbs and enduring cracks about his asshole personality and superiority complex.</p><p> </p><p>He caught up with Danny during Gym class, which was the first time he’d spent any decent chunk of time with his best friend in two days.</p><p> </p><p>“I think it’s good you’re making new friends,” Danny told him after Jackson fumbled through an awkward statement about not sitting together at lunch. (Statement, not apology, because it wasn’t like he had anything to <em>apologise</em> over.)</p><p> </p><p>“I’m not making new friends!” Jackson replied immediately, uncomfortable at the very thought.</p><p> </p><p>“And don’t worry about me,” Danny continued, completely ignoring Jackson’s previous statement. “I could sit with literally anyone and be just fine. I’m glad you’re branching out a little actually, you’re not doing yourself any favours hanging out with people you don’t really like.”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s just for a couple of days,” Jackson explained with a shrug and a glower.</p><p> </p><p>“No,” Danny replied patiently, lips quirked into an annoying smile, “I mean your old friends. You don’t actually like your friends, Jacks. I like them,” Danny shrugged, “but you don’t. You tolerate them because you think it’s what’s expected of you. I’ve been trying to tell you for years that you don’t have to be someone you’re not just because you think Lydia or I or your parents want you to.”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t –” Jackson started, scoffing. “That’s – I mean, just… No.”</p><p> </p><p>“Stilinski and his group are weird,” Danny continued, “but they really seem to look out for each other. You could do a lot worse than hanging out with them in your spare time. You know, when you’re not hanging out with me.”</p><p> </p><p>With that, Danny clapped him on the shoulder and trotted off to actually do whatever exercise it was that Coach wanted them to do. Jackson shook his head. “You have no idea how weird they are,” he muttered, then fell in line with the rest of the class.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>By the time Saturday rolled around Jackson would not say that he was a nervous wreck. He was just… mildly apprehensive for no particular reason. Nervous about stepping into the wolf’s den. Literally.</p><p> </p><p>The ‘official gathering’ was taking place at the same building that housed Peter and Derek’s loft apartment. He was supposed to show up at about ten in the morning. And, according to a message passed on by Isaac on Friday afternoon, he was supposed to wear clothes he didn’t mind getting dusty. Which sort of made it sound like he was going to get put to work cleaning or something, but whatever. He figured he could always just walk out if that were the case.</p><p> </p><p>Jackson parked the Porsche in the same spot as he had the last time he was at the building, a short walk away but within eyesight of the place. He could see Stilinski’s jeep parked out the front already, as well as a sensible green minivan that had all the hallmarks of a car borrowed from a parent. Derek’s shiny black Camaro was in its usual place, alongside a silver Aston Martin.</p><p> </p><p>The whole pack was there already.</p><p> </p><p>Jackson swallowed, squared his shoulders, and got out of the car.</p><p> </p><p>He had no idea what he was going to be walking into. Not a single freakin’ clue.</p><p> </p><p>It was a huge open space broken up by load-bearing concrete pillars and stacks of wooden crates. Light filtered in from louvre windows placed high on the walls. It looked like a factory floor that had been gutted and reworked into the world’s saddest paintball arena. And the first thing Jackson saw when he walked in was Erica Reyes flat on her back on the floor, Peter standing nearby and looking amused.</p><p> </p><p>“…is why if we insist on wearing heels,” he was saying, falsely patient, “they should be two inches or less.”</p><p> </p><p>“Ugh,” Erica replied, seeming to flop even further onto the ground.</p><p> </p><p>“And that’s why you don’t make bets with Uncle Peter,” Isaac’s voice sailed out from somewhere behind one of those stacks of crates, followed by a deep chuckle.</p><p> </p><p>“The next time I tell you not to do something?” Peter prompted the girl on the floor, ignoring Isaac’s comment.</p><p> </p><p>“I listen,” Erica replied grudgingly.</p><p> </p><p>“There’s a good girl.” Peter leaned down to offer the teen a hand. Erica took it, and a split second later she was on her feet again. “No more of this puppy knows better attitude or I’ll hang you from the ceiling.”</p><p> </p><p>“He has the chains to do it,” Derek deadpanned, emerging from behind a nearby stack of crates, the faintest hint of a smirk hiding in the corners of his mouth. “Jackson,” Derek greeted him with a nod. “We’re down that way,” he gestured. “Stiles is in the ‘observation deck’ –” Jackson could <em>hear</em> the quotation marks “– with some books. We’ll be finished with the ‘ass-kicking’ portion of the day in about half an hour.”</p><p> </p><p>“Training,” Peter clarified, looking way too amused at what was obviously a description coined by the younger pack members. “Preternatural strength and speed are no use unless you know how to <em>use</em> them. Now take your shoes off and go again,” he added to Erica, who rolled her eyes but took her shoes off anyway.</p><p> </p><p>The ‘observation deck’ turnout out to be a raised platform area made out of wrought iron. The kind of place that in a working factory would be considered a control room. Like the rest of the factory floor it had been gutted and repurposed, whatever furniture it had once contained replaced with a massive old conference table and several very sturdy chairs.</p><p> </p><p>Stiles sat at the head of the table with a small scattering of books, two of which were open and stacked on top of one another. He had a pencil in his mouth and one in his hand, an open notebook full of scribbles slightly to his right.</p><p> </p><p>At first glance it looked like he might be doing homework. Except for how the books all looked ridiculously old and the ones he could see didn’t seem to have titles.</p><p> </p><p>It took the other teen a minute to realise that Jackson was there. When Stiles did notice Jackson’s presence he startled, limbs jerking, pencil popping out of his mouth and falling forgotten to the floor.</p><p> </p><p>“Jeez! Way to be a creeper, Whittemore,” Stiles said, hand pressed to his chest.</p><p> </p><p>“I made noise,” Jackson retorted, referring to the iron steps he’d just climbed to get up there. “It’s not my fault you don’t pay attention.”</p><p> </p><p>“Whatever,” Stiles shrugged. “I’m guessing they sent you up here to get you out of the way?”</p><p> </p><p>From down below there was a crash and the sound of wood splintering, followed by Peter’s voice calling out a reminder for someone to watch their footing.</p><p> </p><p>“Guess so,” Jackson replied awkwardly, glancing back over his shoulder and catching a glimpse of the controlled violence below. It looked like the pack was split into two, with Isaac and Boyd sparring under Derek’s supervision while Erica ran some kind of obstacle course in bare feet.</p><p> </p><p>It reminded him strangely of lacrosse drills. Coach working drills with a promising player, not going easy but correcting mistakes as they happened and making each screw up a teaching moment.</p><p> </p><p>“Welcome to being human during wolf practice.” Stiles threw up jazz hands. “Still, I’d rather be up here than down there. Down there’s full of teenage werewolves who don’t know their strength yet. Up here’s full of tasty books and a distinct lack of mauling.”</p><p> </p><p>Initially Jackson thought that being stuck upstairs with the ‘tasty books’ would suck. While he put in the effort required at schoolwork in order to get good grades and stay at the top of his classes, he didn’t actually <em>enjoy</em> studying. Books were usually a means to an end, not a pastime in and of themselves. Plus Stilinski was there and they were <em>not</em> in any way friends.</p><p> </p><p>Only it didn’t play out that way.</p><p> </p><p>Half an hour passed by stupidly fast and before he knew it everyone was upstairs in Peter and Derek’s apartment (which was just as weirdly nice as Jackson remembered), bunched up on the three available sofas and attacking platters of sandwiches that had clearly been ordered from a catering service.</p><p> </p><p>“Peter doesn’t cook,” Derek said flatly, responding to Jackson’s question before he’d even managed to ask it. “And most places don’t deliver to this part of town.”</p><p> </p><p>“I did manage to bribe to local pizzeria into making exceptions for us,” Peter added mildly, as if this were any kind of normal thing to say, “but I refuse to eat that kind of crap more than once a week.”</p><p> </p><p>“I get to pick what we eat on Fridays,” Isaac explained, looking smug.</p><p> </p><p>It was a strange dynamic. Everyone was so <em>comfortable</em> with one another, so assured of their place and how they fit. Peter and Derek treated the teenagers like they were nieces and nephews – younger family members who were there hanging out with their cool uncle and his partner. Stilinski, weirdly, was treated more like another adult. And Jackson was treated… not exactly the same, but like a welcome guest. He very obviously wasn’t part of the family (the pack) but he wasn’t given the cold shoulder or treated as if he wasn’t meant to be there.</p><p>He left that afternoon feeling weird. Disquieted.</p><p> </p><p>It wasn’t jealousy exactly, but…</p><p> </p><p>He came home to an empty house, no messages on his computer, and a single text from Lydia demanding to know where he was going to take her tomorrow to make up for letting him miss date night.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>Jackson got invited back to the pack table for lunch on Monday, this time with far less suspicion.</p><p> </p><p>“We’ve decided we like you,” Erica informed him, her red-painted lips formed into a smirk.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re not an ass,” Boyd agreed, then walked off with Erica before he could formulate a response.</p><p> </p><p>“Well, you convinced Derek,” Stiles told him before economics, “and now you’re convincing Peter. Think of it like a trial period, dude. If you can manage not to be a complete dick for once in your life you might actually become part of something.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m already part of something,” Jackson argued, though even to his ears the argument had less weight than it should. “I’m part of lacrosse, I’m part of the school. I’ve got tons of friends already. I don’t need you or the pack.”</p><p> </p><p>“Sure you don’t, buddy,” Stiles said, and clapped him on the shoulder.</p><p> </p><p>The condescension stung, but the realisations that Jackson had been coming to stung even more. Stiles had been right when he’d implied that Jackson wasn’t really <em>part</em> of the lacrosse team, that he was only interested in the sport because he was good at it and the captain of the team. Danny was right too – he didn’t like his friends. He didn’t like how fake they were, how they only seemed to talk about sports and girls and parties and grades. His parents loved him (he <em>knew</em> they loved him) but they weren’t really there for him.</p><p> </p><p>He was an outsider pretending to be on the inside. Handsome, popular, talented, and all of it completely superficial.</p><p> </p><p>On the surface of things, Stilinski was an asshole. Isaac was a smug, sarcastic bitch. Erica was crass and judgemental. Boyd was laconic to the point of selective mutism. Derek was stand-offish and intimidating, and Peter… was just plain unsettling.</p><p> </p><p>But Jackson had caught a glimpse of the inside of the pack now. And on the inside, Stiles was sharp and loyal and not afraid to call anyone on their bullshit. Isaac was so obviously proud to have friends and people who cared about him. Erica was passionate and brave. Boyd had the kind of confidence that was nurturing rather than obnoxious. Derek was observant and caring, and Peter somehow managed a balance of authority and supportiveness that was kind of baffling.</p><p> </p><p>On the inside, Jackson was just some asshole who felt like he had to be better than everyone else. He had to do better, <em>be</em> better, because if he didn’t then who would want to be around him anyway?</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>“Him? <em>Seriously,</em> Stiles? Him!?”</p><p> </p><p>McCall’s voice echoed a little off the walls of the empty locker room, bouncing off tile and out into the hallway as far as the door.  Jackson stopped short, hand already up against the wood. He hovered, ears straining to hear Stiles’ reply.</p><p> </p><p>Whatever the other teen said was too quiet to make out, but the same couldn’t be said of McCall.</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t care about keeping it down, Stiles, I care about what you’re doing with <em>Jackson</em>! Seriously! Out of everyone – he’s a bully, you don’t even like him and now he’s a werewolf?!”</p><p> </p><p>Despite the insults, Jackson couldn’t help but roll his eyes. McCall was damn lucky nobody else was around to have heard that. No wonder no-one questioned him just figuring it out (sort of) with McCall running around shouting about werewolves at top volume.</p><p> </p><p>“That’s not better!” McCall practically shouted. “That’s <em>worse</em>!”</p><p> </p><p>Jackson squared his shoulders, jaw stubbornly clenched, and opened the door. He was sick of hearing only half a conversation, sick of listening to McCall talk shit about him. So what if the asshole was a werewolf – werewolves were supposed to have super senses and McCall couldn’t even tell Jackson was there.</p><p> </p><p>“…is that worse?” Stiles was drawling when Jackson walked in. Stilinski had his arms crossed, eyebrows raised slightly and an exaggeratedly expectant look on his face. “I’d love to hear it, Scott. How, in your mind, is Jackson not being a werewolf <em>worse</em> than if Peter had given him the bite already?”</p><p> </p><p>McCall opened his mouth to reply, then finally seemed to notice that Jackson had walked in and deflated slightly.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,” Jackson added, the anger bubbling up in his chest laced with a sick, squirmy sense of self-loathing. “What’s so bad about me getting the bite, McCall?”</p><p> </p><p>McCall looked pained. Like the idea of calling Jackson out to his face was making him physically sick. He turned back to Stiles. “I’m going to have to tell Mr and Mrs Argent about this,” he said at a normal volume.</p><p>“Go right ahead,” Stiles shrugged, long arms opening wide in a sweeping motion. “It’s not like bringing new members into the pack violates the truce. That’s what’s going on, by the way. Jackson’s getting brought into the pack –” Scott made a scoffing sound, which made Stiles roll his eyes “– something that you and the Argents have no say over.”</p><p> </p><p>“The truce doesn’t matter,” Scott insisted, “not when we’re talking about Jackson.”</p><p> </p><p>“Bullshit the truce doesn’t matter,” Stiles shot back, looking properly angry for the first time since Jackson had walked into the room. “The truce is the only thing keeping your girlfriend out of juvie.”</p><p> </p><p>Scott growled, but Jackson was too caught up in that little revelation to care. “Whoa, wait.” Jackson raised his eyebrows at Stiles. “What’s the truce?”</p><p> </p><p>“Allison’s family kidnapped Derek and held him captive for two days, during which Allison helped her aunt torture him in their murder basement under the old Hale house. There’s enough video evidence that doesn’t include Derek having his wolf-face on to splice together into a nice how-to guide on electrocution as a torture device. They’re werewolf hunters,” Stiles added dryly.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>What</em>?”</p><p> </p><p>Jackson believed it, of course. He’d heard the word ‘truce’ before he’d even known that what Stiles and McCall were involved in was werewolves and not drugs and had never questioned that the Argents were somehow involved. Though his assumptions had been more along the lines of having ties to white supremacy groups or using their arms business as a front for drug smuggling.</p><p> </p><p>Stiles shrugged. “There’s a whole thing about how Allison’s aunt murdered the Hales,” he explained, like this was common knowledge and not at all alarming, “I’ll tell you about it later.”</p><p> </p><p>“That’s not fair,” Scott insisted. “You only have Peter’s side of things, you don’t know if the Hales actually did something to deserve it.”</p><p> </p><p>“Aaand there’s where you’ve lost me,” Stiles shook his head sadly. He marched over and grabbed Jackson’s arm, steering him towards the door with a surprising amount of force for someone who gave the impression of being a collection of noodles in a plaid shirt. “This argument is officially over. Goodbye Scott. C’mon Jackson, let’s go.”</p><p> </p><p>“We’re going somewhere you can explain all of this shit to me, right?” Jackson asked bluntly, following Stiles mainly because he wasn’t keen on being alone with a self-righteous McCall who had just implied that murdering a family was okay if they’d ‘done something to deserve it’.</p><p> </p><p>“Well,” Stiles said as they entered the school proper, turning into the hallway, “your thirty-day trial is pretty much up and you haven’t been a dick, so…” Stiles whipped his phone out and had the message app open faster than Jackson could even blink, his thumbs flying over the keyboard on the screen. “I’ll just make sure Derek’s cool with it and then I can give you the key notes version.”</p><p> </p><p>“Thirty-day trial,” Jackson repeated, coming up short when he realised that yes, he’d been hanging out with the pack for almost a full month.</p><p> </p><p>When had that happened, he wondered.</p><p> </p><p>He cast his mind back while Stiles texted. He’d been to three official pack gatherings as well as a couple of ‘informal’ hang-outs with the other teens at the loft. He’d gone to some kind of hide and seek game in the preserve that had ended in a picnic. He sat with the pack four days out of five, with Wednesdays reserved for sitting with Danny and Lydia… Though Lydia had started giving him the cold shoulder a couple of weeks ago.</p><p> </p><p>The time had passed so quickly that he’d barely even noticed it.</p><p> </p><p>How bad was it when he didn’t even care that his girlfriend had hardly spoken to him in weeks?</p><p> </p><p>Then something else occurred to him. “You need to make sure Derek’s okay with it,” Jackson said, not particularly fussed that they seemed to be towards the parking lot despite the couple of hours left before school ended. “Derek, not Peter?”</p><p> </p><p>“Peter would only care if it –”</p><p> </p><p>“Upset Derek,” Jackson finished with Stiles, catching on half way through the other teen’s sentence.</p><p> </p><p>“And I’m not going to tell you stuff if Derek wants it kept private,” Stiles continued, eyes on his phone screen.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s really that bad?”</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>It was really that bad.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>The short version of the story was that Allison’s aunt had, with the help of several accomplices, trapped and killed the majority of Derek’s family. She’d gotten away with it for six years, until Peter lured her back to Beacon Hills by tracking down and killing her accomplices.</p><p> </p><p>Scott, bitten by mistake and by all accounts innocent, somehow got exposed during dinner with Allison’s family. Derek got in between him and the Argents and got tazed and kidnapped while Scott got away clean. Then, for the next two days, Derek was held captive in a concrete cell and tied to an electrified fence. Allison’s aunt spent a good amount of those two days torturing him both with and without her niece.</p><p> </p><p>Peter got his hands on the recordings and used them as leverage to bully the Argents into negotiating a truce. They wouldn’t come after him for Kate’s murder or for building a new pack and in return Peter wouldn’t use the recordings to ruin their family’s reputation and their daughter’s life.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>“So you can kind of see why I’m really disappointed in Scott’s reasoning skills about now,” Stiles summed up dryly.</p><p> </p><p>“McCall’s girlfriend is a werewolf hunter,” Jackson arched his eyebrows, “who he knows helped kidnap and torture a guy… but it’s all cool because it was someone he doesn’t really like?”</p><p> </p><p>“No no no,” Stiles shook his head, obviously having heard variations of McCall’s bullshit many times over the past few months, “it’s because Peter killed someone, and killing is wrong. Except when Allison’s family do it, because they’re protecting people.”</p><p> </p><p>“By lighting them on fire.”</p><p> </p><p>“Exactly.” Stiles clicked and pointed his index finger at Jackson, finger-gun style. He slumped back against the car seat, boneless and defeated. It was so obvious Stiles hated that he and Scott weren’t best friends anymore, connected only by shared secrets and knowledge of the supernatural.</p><p> </p><p>They were sitting in Stiles’ jeep, parked in the lot of the local Starbucks with coffees resting precariously in the cracked cupholders. Jackson still wasn’t sure how he’d been talked into going in the jeep and not in his Porsche. Probably some bullshit about leg room or the risk of spilling coffee on his leather interior.</p><p> </p><p>Jackson frowned, staring out the windshield instead of looking at the other boy.</p><p> </p><p>It was uncomfortable, thinking about the kind of stuff that the others had gone through. Thinking about McCall’s weird ideas of right and wrong versus Peter’s philosophy of ‘do no harm, but if you really have to do harm then do the best harm you can do’. It wasn’t his past or his problem, but he felt bad about it just the same.</p><p> </p><p>A weird feeling, considering he’d gone into things thinking he was going to get ammunition to knock them both off their high horse and maybe get a couple of drug dealers arrested.</p><p> </p><p>“Derek had a nine-year-old cousin,” Stiles said after a moment, very quietly, “who was human. I get the idea of hunting down werewolves that are psychotic and out of control – not like law enforcement’s gonna be much use for that – but I don’t get how Scott can justify killing a nine-year-old kid. I don’t get it.”</p><p> </p><p>Jackson sat in uncomfortable silence for a minute, struggling with whether or not he should say something. Or anything. In the end he sighed in disgust.</p><p> </p><p>“You know why I hated you guys so much?” he asked Stiles, looking up at the roof of the jeep instead of at the other teen. “It’s because you both got away with <em>so much shit</em>. The sort of shit that would’ve got anyone else into trouble. Like, McCall would bat his eyelashes and instead of getting detention he winds up getting a free cookie at recess. You always thought you were so smart, better than the rest of us, like you didn’t deserve to catch shit because you were ‘good kids’.”</p><p> </p><p>Jackson rolled his eyes. “And I was always like ‘good kids’? McCall’s a fucking dumbass and Stilinski’s a shit-stirrer, they’re not even <em>trying</em> to be good. So… excuse me if it doesn’t <em>surprise</em> me that Scott dumbass McCall doesn’t understand the difference between justifiable homicide and murdering a bunch of innocent people.”</p><p> </p><p>Jackson risked a glance at Stiles, who was sitting there staring at him with his mouth hanging open. Literally hanging slightly open, as if he’d gone to say something but had stopped before any sound could leave his mouth.</p><p> </p><p>“You know…” Stiles said slowly, his face cycling through a couple of different emotions before settling on something vaguely amused. “I actually remember the cookie thing.”</p><p> </p><p>“It was bullshit,” Jackson told him bluntly. “I’m still upset about it.”</p><p> </p><p>Stiles laughed. “You know we hated you because we thought you had it easy, right?”</p><p> </p><p>Jackson shrugged. “I thought you had it easy,” he admitted, lips quirking into a smirk at the irony.</p><p> </p><p>If there was one thing Jackson had learned it was that there were no winners in the misery olymics.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>There's not much more to this story, but the ending/last chapter may take some time to get to.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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